


Phone

by BloodyAbattoir



Series: Your Reality Is A Nightmare [24]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 16:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodyAbattoir/pseuds/BloodyAbattoir
Summary: You've been considering turning off your phone for quite some time now.





	Phone

Your phone is still active, on the off chance that one of two people would call you, or text you. You've long since abandoned your social media handles, your false names, your pseudonyms and characters. This phone number and an email address are the only things that tie your past to your present. 

 

Everything else can run on autopilot, you think. The only thing that ever seems to end up in your inbox are spam emails and the odd message from your bank. Ditto for your phone. 

 

You could easily fall off the face of the earth and nobody would miss you. You almost want to. Actually, you really want to. Even your own mother doesn't call you, even when something important has happened. You've lost track of the amount of times you've missed out on some important event or bit of news because nobody could be bothered to call you. It's either spam calls and texts, or passive-aggressive texts from her brother about whatever bee had gotten under his bonnet that day. 

 

At this point, to you, it wasn't worth having a phone anymore. You'd gotten along without one before, and you'd continue to do just fine without one, you reasoned. You had two 'friends' who only ever called you when they wanted to vent about something, and if you didn't text your 'partner' first, he likely would never reply to you anymore. You didn't go anywhere that would require you to use a GPS. Both your home and job had wi-fi. 

 

Most importantly, and most damning of all, was the fact that neither of the two people that you so desperately wanted to call you ever would. It'd been years, and not a single peep. Why should that change in the near future? 

 

Your mind made up, you get into your beat up old lemon of a car, making a straight trip to the phone store. It's a ten minute drive. There's no traffic. The music on the radio is decent, and makes it feel like an even shorter drive than it already was. It seems that in only the blink of an eye you're standing in front of the glass door. You take a breath, and you wonder if it's worth it, and then you shrug. 

 

Your car goes through gas like it was water. The seventy dollars you wouldn't be spending on a phone anymore every month could go towards your gas, and then perhaps you wouldn't be left panicking quietly at the fact that your bank account was often one badly timed cheque away from a massive overdraft. 

 

You pull open the door and walk in. The blast of the air conditioning hits you immediately. Outside it may be summer, but inside the store, it was as cold as a brisk spring morning. 

 

You approach the counter, and lay your phone down, explain to the man in the cheap polo shirt that you wanted to cancel your service. No number porting, nothing else. Just cancel it. You no longer wanted a phone, or a phone number, with them, or with anyone else. You wanted to disappear, to be a ghost. 

 

He rolls his eyes at you, but taps away at his computer anyway, pulling up your information. 

 

He informs you of the price to cancel your contract early. It's a high fee, but it doesn't matter as badly as erasing yourself does. You smile to your self as you think of how quickly you'll disappear once the only thing left to trace to you is a bank account you barely use, and an email address you log into perhaps once a month, if you estimated generously. 

 

Something about you, your tone of voice, the look in your eyes, is enough to make him shut his mouth. He doesn't offer you any more incentives to stay with the service provider, any more questions or comments. He says that there's some paperwork that you've to sign, and he's going to print it out right quick if you'd hold on for a moment. 

 

You nod. What was a few more minutes in the grand scheme of things?

 

He disappears through a door at the back of the store, into whatever passed for an office, you assumed. 

 

While you wait for him, your phone buzzes twice, long. Then, your fitbit. Someone's just texted you. Logic says that it must be another spam message, but you check it anyway, out of reflex. The message scrolls across the tiny, cracked screen of your watch. It was short.  _Hi._

 

Normally, you would've ignored it, except for one important fact. The name of the sender was displayed above it.  _Scrub_. 

 

Hell has frozen over, and by the time that the sales associate returns from wherever he's darted off to, a sheaf of papers clutched in  one hand, you're already in your car, gunning it down the highway. You have a reunion to get to. 

 


End file.
